And then he left. And I was all alone in the apartment, as usual.
For the second time in a week, I was filled with rage. White hot, powerful. I drank the rest of the bottle of wine. Then I stood up and walked down two flights of stairs.
I knocked on his door.
He opened it. Pulled me inside.
This time there was no preamble. No pretense of polite conversation. I don’t think we spoke one word. We weren’t respectful or gentle or cautious with one another now. My silk shirt was torn from me. I gasped against his mouth like someone drowning. Bit at him. Tore the skin of his back with my nails. Relinquished all control. I was possessed.
Afterward, as we lay tangled in his sheets, I finally managed to speak. “This cannot happen again. You understand that, don’t you?”
He just smiled.
Over the next few weeks we became reckless. Testing the boundaries, scaring ourselves a little. The adrenaline rush, the fear—so similar a feeling to the quickening of arousal. Each seemed to heighten the other, like the rush of some drug. I had behaved so well for so long.
The secret spaces of this building became our private playground. I took him in my mouth in the old servants’ staircase, my hands sliding into his trousers, expert, greedy. He had me in the laundry room in the cave, up against the washing machine as it thrummed out its cycle.
And every time I tried to end it. And every time I know we both heard the lie behind the words.
“Maman,” Mimi says now—and I am jolted, abruptly, guiltily, out of these memories. “Maman, I don’t know what to do.”
My wonderful miracle. My Merveille. My Mimi. She came to me when I had given up all hope of having a child. You see, she wasn’t always mine.
She was, quite simply, perfect. A baby: only a few weeks old. I did not know exactly where she had come from. I had my ideas, but I kept them to myself. I had learned it was important, sometimes, to look the other way. If you know that you aren’t going to like the reply, don’t ask the question. There was just one thing I needed to know and to that I got my answer: the mother was dead. “And illegal. So there’s no paper trail to worry about. I know someone at the mairie who will square the birth certificate.” A mere formality for the grand and powerful house of Meunier. It helps to have friends in high places.
And then she was mine. And that was the important thing. I could give her a better life.
“Shh,” I say. “I’m here. Everything will be OK. I’m sorry I was stern last night, with the wine. But you understand, don’t you? I didn’t want a scene. Leave it all with me, ma chérie.”
It was—is—so fierce, that feeling. Even though she didn’t come out of my body, I knew as soon as I saw her that I would do anything to protect her, to keep her safe. Other mothers might say that sort of thing casually. But perhaps it is clear by now that I don’t do or say anything casually. When I say something like that, I mean it.
Jess
I come up out of the Palais Royal Metro station. I almost don’t recognize the tall, smartly dressed guy waiting at the top of the steps until he starts walking toward me.
“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Theo says.
“You didn’t give me any time,” I say. “And I got caught up—”
“Come on,” Theo says. “We can still make it if we’re snappy about it.” I look him over, trying to work out why he looks so different from the last time I met him. Only a five o’clock shadow now, revealing a sharp jawline. Dark hair still in need of a cut but it’s had a brush and he’s swept it back from his face. A dark blazer over a white shirt and jeans. I even catch a waft of cologne. He’s definitely scrubbed up since the café. He still looks like a pirate, but now like one who’s had a wash and a shave and borrowed some civilian clothes.
“That’s not going to cut it,” he says, nodding at me. Clearly, he’s not having the same charitable thoughts about my outfit.
“It’s all I had to wear. I did try to say—”
“It’s fine, I thought that might be the case. I’ve brought you some stuff.”
He thrusts a Monoprix bag-for-life toward me. I look inside: I can see a tangle of clothes; a black dress and a pair of heels.
“You bought this?”
“Ex-girlfriend. You’re roughly the same size, I’d guess.”
“Ew. OK.” I remind myself that this might all somehow help me find out what’s happened to Ben, that beggars can’t be choosers about wearing the haunted clothes of girlfriends past. “Why do I have to wear this sort of stuff?”